


Accidents Happen

by koritsimou



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Meet-Cute, suggestion of domestic abuse, unfounded but may be triggering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 16:32:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2276760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koritsimou/pseuds/koritsimou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire entertains himself during a long A&E wait.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accidents Happen

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an [AUs send me a prompt thing](http://asongbirdandanoldhat.tumblr.com/post/96736225956/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-ill-write-a-short-fic) on [tumblr](asongbirdandanoldhat.tumblr.com).

Three students appear in the doorway of Accident and Emergency, two supporting the weight of their injured friend between them. A fourth follows close behind, obviously fretting at the same time as holding an ice pack to his own face. They are all wearing the same t-shirt. Grantaire had heard that there was a protest being held in the square today. It seems it must have taken an undesirable turn towards riot at some point in the afternoon.

The human crutches gently deposit their cargo on a chair, careful not to further jarr his leg, as their anxious friend speaks to a nurse and collects some forms. Movement in the corner of his eye draws Grantaire’s attention back to where it has been for most of his long wait. The gorgeous blond in the corner has slumped low in his seat and turned his face away from the newcomers. His t-shirt matches the students', Grantaire realises, curious.

A tiny Indian woman in scrubs clears her throat in the middle of the waiting area. She sounds tired as she calls out a name that is not Grantaire’s. He turns away from her in time to see the summoned “Marguerite Ledoux” vacate the very seat beside his suddenly shy marvel. Grantaire is on his feet so fast he startles the old woman beside him.

From the other side of the room he was hot; from the next seat he is breathtaking. 

“Hello,” Grantaire says easily, like he greets beautiful strangers every day.

The blond’s eyebrows drift upwards but he politely responds, “Hello,” before returning his attention to the phone in his hands.

“I’m R,” Grantaire continues, unperturbed. He offers the man his wrong hand, and hopes to hell for the hundredth time that the right isn’t broken.

The man looks at Grantaire’s hand bemused, but noticing how Grantaire is holding his right hand towards himself he nods and consents to an awkward left hand handshake. “Enjolras,” he gives Grantaire a name.

But not his first. Grantaire’s eyes dart unbidden to the forms on Enjolras’ lap and he cannot help himself in probing, “You don’t like Marcellin?”

Enjolras frowns and flips over the clipboard and papers. He makes as if to turn away from Grantaire, but thanks to his unexplained reluctance to face his fellow protestors, he continues to gift Grantaire with his countenance. He shrugs and says, “It’s my father’s name.”

“So too is Enjolras, presumably,” Grantaire points out.

Unbelievably, Enjolras blushes and just like that Grantaire is ready to follow him to the ends of the earth. If such a wonder was ever to occur a second time, he wants to be there to see it. He wants to be its cause. Grantaire has watched this man for hours, passed a long wait musing on this golden-ratioed god, and not for a moment did he ever suspect he might be flusterable. 

“You go by only one letter, but I’m not allowed to just use my surname?” Enjolras retorts. He’s so easily riled. Grantaire has never been more delighted.

“When all letters are present and correct, mine is Grantaire,” he tells Enjolras. “R for short.”

“It’s a pun,” Enjolras says flatly. The flush is already fading from his cheeks to Grantaire’s sorrow.

“Guilty,” Grantaire agrees.

“And your given name?”

“Is best spoken as a bitten off sigh or a morning whisper,” Grantaire promises. Disappointingly Grantaire’s words do nothing to return the unexpected warmth to Enjolras’ complexion.

After another quick glance at the protesters by the door, Enjolras is ignoring Grantaire and typing on his phone.

“So why are you hiding from your fellow idealists?” Grantaire asks. “There surely can’t be warring factions. You have the look of someone who could inspire a united front.”

Enjolras locks the screen of his phone and side-eyes Grantaire.

“I would readily unite with you. I cannot imagine a warm-blooded individual who wouldn’t,” Grantaire says honestly.

Enjolras rolls his eyes at Grantaire’s unsubtle suggestion. He also winces a little, so Grantaire dials it back.

“Did they make fun of your protest slogans?” he asks in a conspiratorial whisper. “Could you only manage slant rhymes?”

There is a tiny twitch at the corner of Enjolras’ lips but Grantaire is looking for it. His grin is smug.

“I didn’t actually make it to the protest,” Enjolras says in a small voice. He looks pained to admit it, and perhaps he only did to prove Grantaire wrong.

Grantaire is still watching him closely when those two small delightful spots of colour return. Blatant propositions? Nothing. But this he’s embarrassed about. Grantaire is fascinated. His gaze slides up to the purpling bruise and fresh cut above Enjolras’ left eye. “Really? Because it looks like you were the first to be bottled?”

For a moment Grantaire imagines it, imagines Enjolras - rallying cry caught in his throat, fire in his eyes, lit both by sunlight and his own anger - and his fingers itch to capture the image. The jolt of pain in his hand brings him back to the present.

Enjolras is frowning. “I definitely wasn’t. I’ve been here even longer than you.”

“How d'you know?”

“I saw you come in.”

“Did you now?” Grantaire says meaningfully.

“I’m observant,” Enjolras says, his tone warning Grantaire not to start. But this is definitely an instance of shutting the barn door after the horse has bolted, as Grantaire’s grandmother would say.

“Mmhm,” Grantaire agrees, knowing he doesn’t need to say anything more.

“It’s not because-” Enjolras cuts himself off. “Your hair-”

“-is one of my best features, I’m told.” 

“One of my friends has dark curly hair similar to yours, and for a moment I thought he had come to make sure I hadn’t snuck off. When I realised you were not him, I stopped paying any attention to you,” Enjolras cuts Grantaire down.

“Until now,” Grantaire gives him an insolent grin.

Enjolras watches him for a moment, before in a sure voice he agrees, “Yes, until now.”

Grantaire’s grin falters as his heart starts to beat a little faster. He swallows. “Um, so how did you do that?” he gestures to Enjolras’ brow.

“I tripped,” Enjolras says quickly.

It’s unlikely, the scenario playing out in Grantaire’s mind, so unlikely; Enjolras appears to be here alone, and if he weren’t he probably wouldn’t be allowed to talk to Grantaire, certainly not the way he’s been talking to Grantaire.Yet there is still a moment where Grantaire worries, imagining further injuries hidden by Enjolras’ clothes. It feels awkward, but he has to check. Flipping through his own set of admission sheets he finds a mostly blank one and rips a bit off. He coughs and taps his pen against the scrap and writes, “ _Is he here? If you need to talk to a doctor alone I can cause a distraction._ ” There’s a beat before he squeezes a “ _/she_ ” into the first question. When he looks at Enjolras again he is met with surprise.

“I’m not a battered spouse,” Enjolras says, sounding if anything a little insulted. Which is kind of judgemental and rude, but Grantaire is only relieved. Enjolras seems to rally. He speaks more gently when he says, “But that was strangely considerate of you.”

“We just met. You have no idea what my normal level of consideration is,” Grantaire says, awkwardly.

“Not you, specifically. I meant in general. That’s not the kind of thing most people would do,” Enjolras says, gesturing at Grantaire’s questions. Now Enjolras is definitely giving Grantaire a considering look, but it’s not the right kind of attention.

Grantaire crumples the scrap of paper up in his good hand and shrugs. “You turn up in A&E, looking like that, claiming you tripped. What are people supposed to think?”

“I did trip,” Enjolras says. “Who leaves their shoes on a staircase?”

“I don’t know. Who does?” Grantaire asks, clinging to the chance to turn the conversation back onto Enjolras and still desperately curious to find out more about him.

“Only Courfeyrac.” Enjolras shakes his head.

“Is Courfeyrac your non-abusive boyfriend?” Grantaire enquires.

“Courfeyrac is my non-abusive friend.” Were it not for the complete lack of playfulness in Enjolras’ voice, Grantaire would swear he was deliberately teasing with his short responses, specifically devoid of the information he desires.

“Is he the callous bastard who forced you to visit A&E instead of demanding a better tomorrow with your fellows in the square?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes at Grantaire’s mocking and winces again. “No, that was Combeferre,” he huffs. He looks like a grumpy kitten. Grantaire is enchanted.

“We share a flat, not a bedroom,” Enjolras specifies before Grantaire can ask.

Grantaire beams. “Wonderful.”

Enjolras ignores him.

It is then that an older gentleman appears to remind Grantaire that he can’t have nice things by calling, “Marcellin Enjolras” in a grave voice.

Enjolras stands immediately and that’s it, Grantaire accepts. One of the students looks up in recognition, a young pretty girl. Her soft blonde curls would look positively angelic were she not sharing a space with Enjolras. Who is speaking. To Grantaire.

“It was... well, odd really, speaking to you,” he is saying. ”I hope your hand is okay.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire replies, as Enjolras lifts the strap of the brown leather satchel at his feet. “I would wish you the same, but your face is already perfection itself.”

Enjolras doesn’t respond but as he leaves, following the doctor, he is shaking his head. Grantaire smiles. God, he wants to follow him.

And in a way, he does. Grantaire’s number comes up not five minutes later.

After some painful manipulation - but not painful enough for a break, seemingly - Grantaire is discharged with a bad sprain and a script for over-the-counter painkillers. As pleased as he is that his injury isn’t worse, his morning has now been lost for nothing. Strangely it doesn’t feel as much of a waste as it should.

Catching sight of his reflection in the glass wall of the nurses station, Grantaire is horrified by his own stupid little smile. From what, one conversation? He’s embarrassed for himself. He didn’t even get a number out of it. As he approaches the exit, Grantaire digs left-handed through his pockets to see if he has change for the bus. He stops just inside when he realises that searching his right pocket is a little too difficult to manage on the move. Grantaire doesn’t find sufficient change, but he does find Enjolras standing on the other side of the glass.

He spares a moment to consider how sad it would make him to try chatting him up a second time. He weighs it against how pathetic it might be to wait inside for Enjolras to leave. Presumably he’s waiting on a lift. Eventually Grantaire decides that if he keeps to the left, he can probably get by without Enjolras even noticing him.

Enjolras looks up at the noise of the automatic doors sliding open. As soon as he sees it’s Grantaire a scarily determined expression takes over his face and he all but marches to Grantaire’s side. Grantaire has no idea how to play this. He feels like he’s about to get in trouble. As Enjolras reaches him, Grantaire sees that his left eye is stained slightly orange with some kind of dye. It would be comical were it not for his resolute expression.

“So, I’m almost certain you didn’t actually see any of my personal details beyond my name,” Enjolras says, without preamble.

Grantaire puts his hands up and quickly confirms, “Just your name, I promise.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, and I was- I realised I was kind of disappointed,” Enjolras says. He pauses, as if to let his meaning sink in. Grantaire is grateful, because it takes a while. “So here,” he adds, thrusting a scrap of paper adorned with the most beautiful string of numbers Grantaire has ever seen. Grantaire takes it.

“You’re giving me your phone number?” Grantaire says, just to be sure.

“I am,” Enjolras says, and the determination on his beautiful face is no longer frightening, it’s hilarious. “I enjoyed speaking with you.”

“You said it was odd,” Grantaire reminds him, and maybe the reason Grantaire can’t have nice things is because when the universe gives them to him he tries to throw them back in the universe’s face. Grantaire stops talking. Enjolras continues.

“I did. I didn’t say I didn’t like it. It _was_ odd. It’s unusual for me to enjoy the company of strangers.”

“Maybe we’re not supposed to be strangers,” Grantaire tests.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow, but there is a tiny smirk at the edges of his answering, “Maybe.”

Grantaire looks at the piece of paper in his hand and thinks, _fuck waiting_. “What are you doing now?” he asks.

“Waiting for my non-abusive friends to pick me up.”

“How would you feel about waiting somewhere that serves coffee?” Grantaire asks. He already has Enjolras’ number; asking him out shouldn’t be so hard. But the wait for an answer is excruciating. It feels longer than the emergency room wait, and less bearable than the pain in his hand. 

Enjolras seems to be fighting a grin when he finally replies, “I wouldn’t protest.”


End file.
